Show me ingratiation
by iciclesfromcynthia
Summary: Elena is a prostitute whom Damon becomes unhealthily infatuated with. AU. Not especially happy.


_One question: should I just leave it like this or have a sequel?_ Anyway, first story in a long, long time.

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><p>.<p>

Damon first sees the dead ringer leaning against a street corner in the bad parts of town. There is no hesitation on whether she's Katherine or not; the girl's vulnerable pulse calls out to him clear as day and all Damon wants to do is to rip it out for not being the one.

He didn't drive to her, or roll down his window and give her a 'come here' signal. Just watches her to remember. It's a little pathetic and creepier than he'd ever wish to be credited for, but he's fine with that.

The resemblance is remarkable: same long dark hair, same crisp white teeth, and the same smooth olive skin. It would be so easy to forget for a little while. Put_ Katherine _down for a little while.

Nonetheless, she didn't come 'cause he didn't beckon for her. It's too soon_,_ especially when his mind is still reeling from shock and sudden self-pity (always self-pity), but the thirst inside him whispers to just_ take_. Because a lookalike whore selling it on the street is the closest he can come to.

Damon drives to her.

The girl is young, certainly younger than Katherine. Up close Damon could smell the exhaust and sex and hunger on her; he doesn't care—just rolls down the window and lowers his head to meet her heavily made-up eyes.

"Hi," he drawls, smiling the way he knows is attractive.

She takes a couple provocative steps toward his car, slowly slides her arms on the hood, and leans down. Her loose crop top dives. "Hey there," she says, answering with an equally lascivious grin. Damon turns to takes a shaky breath because this is too fucking weird.

He can leave right now, and forget about this; he can go and keep finding clues on how to get Katherine out of the tomb.

Instead, Damon unlocks his car. "Why don't you come inside?"

The girl didn't say another word, just climbs inside his car and shuts the door hard. Her smile slips off for a few heartbeats, but comes back in full force when she turns to tilt her head at him. "Drive there," she instructs, pointing at an empty parking lot behind an alley. Damon slips in and parks stray from the other occupying cars. His car stutters after he cuts the engine.

"Hmm," the girl says. "What's your name?"

Damon replies, "Damon," and then he deliberate a little. "What's yours?"

"So Damon, what do you want?" she asks instead—all business.

Damon pauses because he never had to pay for sex, or even _compel_ for that matter. "How does this work?"

The girl chuckles as if she finds him awfully naïve. "Forty for a hand job, ninety-seven for a blowjob, a hundred and eighty-five for sex," she lists and Damon is wondering how any decent men would be aroused by this then remembers, they isn't.

She gives him a glance and added quickly: "Nothing weird."

That sparks off many a many remarks he wants to ask, but instead says: "A blowjob." Damon hopes he sounds less shaky then he feels.

The girl nods, reaches over for his belt buckle and unbuckles it expertly with one hand. Damon tries not to linger on about how cheap this is: getting a ninety-seven dollars blowjob in a car. Then all thinking goes out when she pulls him out of his boxer and into her grip where a condom awaits.

She makes a small little sound before taking him in her mouth, long hair slipping off her shoulders. The heat was incredible and Damon couldn't stop himself from thrusting deeper_, harder_ into the tight wet hole of her pink mouth. The girl grabs his hips teasingly, and looks up pretty and it's so familiar that he's about to lose it.

Her tongue swipes at his slit before she takes more of him, 'till she's nuzzling with the base of his cock. Damon can't help but grab for her hair, pushes her head down and fuck her mouth relentlessly. He's about to moan but stifles it instead; too personal.

Damon comes minutes later—faster than he ever came—and the girl pulls off instantly. She leaves the condom on.

Then, when he's still stunned and fevered, she says with a derisive smile "That'll be ninety-seven dollars."

Pulling out his wallet, Damon took out a hundred dollar bill. "No change," he says, still dazed, and the girl nods as she takes it.

She was about halfway out the car when Damon finally asks: "What's your name?"

"Elena," she says and steps out into the dark.

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Damon comes back after four nights.

Elena is smoking a cigarette and chatting with two other worn prostitutes when he drives by again. There wasn't a twinge of remembrance on her face when he calls her over; Damon tries not to be bothered. But he's notorious, _infamous_—no one ever forgets him—much less should this insignificant hooker.

"Hello," he articulates, throwing all his charms and pouty smile like a sack of bricks at her, in hopes she'll stutter or something.

She doesn't. "Hey! Devin, right?" Elena suddenly smiles, bright and beautiful and mocking. "Nice to see you again."

Damon didn't correct her. It's close enough. "Yeah," he bristles. "Get in the car."

Elena's eyes darken and her mouth drops. She gets in the car though, as it's the only thing that matters.

Sex, sex_, sex. _Damon's a simple man: carnal and blood pleasures are all he needs. Screw Katherine, he's got a hooker here less complex and much less laborious than her.

"So, Devin," her eyes flickers at his face before trailing down. "What do you want this time?"

Damon parts his lips. "Sex." Then scornfully: "My name's Damon."

She wasn't apologetic. "Right. We need a motel for that."

The car's heavy with silence after Elena briskly tells him the direction. He's got an intuition that she dislikes him, and for that, there're awkwardness and embarrassment and anger for the rest of the ride. Who is she to judge?

As they stand before the motel clerk, Damon fidgets slightly. The clerk didn't throw condemning looks, but the voyeuristic awareness is unwanted. Elena seems unfazed and Damon tries for the same indifference.

"Here we are," Elena says after the clerk leaves. "I usually ask for money beforehand—insurance." She smiles ruefully.

Damon fucks her from behind. His hips hammering into her and all he can think about is the absent of hurt. With every thrust comes relief he'd never thought he'd get.

Elena's gripping the headboard so tight her knuckles look strained and painful. She didn't make any noise—it would've been a great, _great_ pejorative except Damon can feel how hard her cunt's clenching around him. The breathy gasps and occasional moan just makes them that much more precious.

They didn't kiss; not once. He didn't want to anyways—too unsettling.

"I'll see you around?" Elena asks, sounding nonchalant. Instead, Damon hears slight longing and he recalls the pungent smell of other men on her. They couldn't be pretty.

"I guess you will."

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After two nights, Elena sucks him off again before riding him. It takes for him to blow longer seeing as the initial novelty worn off; Damon's just glad that his existing stamina finally comes to light.

"Why are you here?" she asks suddenly. Her left foot wiggles into a tattered boot.

He's not so used to bluntness; he isn't transparent enough for that. "Hmm."

Elena answers with a smile and a cheated scoff. "You're good looking," she states coolly. "And you have a nice car. You have money—what are you doing here?" She doesn't look up from her shoes.

There's nothing he can say to that.

"Well," standing up, she swipes her hair from underneath the strap of her sling bag. "Hope you feel better about whatever it is."

She leaves, and in her place stays cold air.

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.

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It becomes a self-destructive addiction— Elena. It's an ongoing, unhealthy practice of sex. It's of Damon feeling a little less lonely and Elena gaining a generous regular. It's of Damon finding Elena fascinating with her subtle intellect and Elena bristling his knowledge off.

It's of Damon thinking, how different would this all be, if they were someone else. Someone they might have been.

But they're not; so he sits on the seedy motel bed and watches Elena slips into what appears to be her only shirt. Damon keeps swallowing back his words for the past ten minutes or so, and if he doesn't spit them out soon, she'll be gone. And he'll feel shitty for the next two days.

He sees the curve of her lips when Elena turns. She's smiling. "What are you thinking about?"

"Do you want to go out for dinner with me?"

_Done_.

Elena's face goes stiff.

"Damon," she chooses her next words very carefully. "I'm a hooker," she says gently. "And you're just messed up." And what hurts the most is that she looks absolutely helpless and_ sorry._

Time somehow froze and they're right in the middle of it, staring at each other. Damon wants to break something. Prove he's not pathetic and messed up when he is so fucked beyond belief._ He's asked a prostitute to dinner_, and _Christ_, the full realization hits him hard. Is this how low he's gone to?

She sees it too. "Goodbye, Damon." She says sadly.

Damon is absolutely _not _ready for her to leave. Not after that.

Elena's hand flits for the door handle but then he's already there, blocking the door, and leaning too casually.

Her pretty mouth flattens into a bloodless line.

"What are you doing?" Elena sounds quizzing and uneasy, her hand meanwhile begin to pull harder at the door knob. "Let me out!" It's definite panic creeping into her voice—and Damon still can't help himself.

Her heartbeat is frantic and overpowering: in jackhammer mode. The sloshing of blood inside her is absolutely intoxicating and he feels a little insane.

Damon pry Elena's struggling face up to meet him, she has tears in her eyes but still manages looking outraged.

"There's something I want you to know," he says. "Do you want to hear it?"

No answer; Elena watches him with hateful—fearful— eyes. He ignores it, tilts his face down as if he's seeking a kiss. "I'm a monster." Damon mouths against her trembling jaw.

The blood that came next is very intoxicating, indeed.

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><p><em>Not<em> the best, I know, but tell me how to improve it :)


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